I'm not sure that I've ever really written much about sport, let alone Australian Rules Football. And I didn't think that it would inspire me to write a blog.

However the an incident from last week's matches has got me thinking... 

The short version of events is that an umpire reported a player for "abusive and insulting language towards an umpire." The umpire's microphone didn't pick up the comment, so it's become a case whether you believe the umpire's word or the player's.

Usually, such an incident wouldn't bother me at all. In fact, most weeks I wouldn't even realise such a thing had occured. But it must have been a slow news week in footy land because the media have become obsessed with the incident and how it has been dealt with.

And for those of us in education, it's all far too familiar.

How often do teachers get questioned about whether or not a student actually  said something offensive?
Did the student actually throw something?
Did the student actually punch someone?

And in education, we don't have the luxury of an umpire's mic. All too often, it is our word against theirs.

Teachers are the umpires of the classroom. We are the ones who maintain the flow of the game (of learning). We're expected to enforce the rules so that everyone can enjoy the game. And we're expected to step in when necessary.

However, the media's response has highlighted how tricky this is. They have jumped in quickly to defend the player and suggest the umpire was overstepping.

It reminds me of the "my son wouldn't do that" line that is too familiar to teachers.

Instead of trusting the professional whose role it is to ensure that the game is played fairly, we start criticising them.

Teachers feel this deeply. When every classroom incident is framed through the lens of "the school was too harsh" or "the teacher should have de-escalated better," teachers being told they are responsible for the incident. Meanwhile the student who instigated it is not held responsible for their part.

We need to move beyond this.

We need to support schools by:

• Trusting that schools are setting boundaries to keep the whole community safe, valued and learning (not to just target a student)
  
• Understanding that seemingly small incidents may need a consequence to prevent them becoming the norm
  
• Recognising that teachers aren't obstacles to students' learning: we're the ones that make the game possible.
  

If we want our schools to be safe, calm, centres of learning, we have to start "backing the umps." We need to trust the professionals who make the game of learning possible.

Inspired by an episode of Lego Masters, I was talking with my kids about which ancient civilisation we would build.

My daughter didn’t hesitate. “I’d do Ancient Rome,” she said. “The Colosseum, with horses racing around it!”

Before I could respond, the seven‑year‑old looked up and said, matter‑of‑factly:
“They didn’t race horses in the Colosseum. That was the Circus Maximus.”

My jaw dropped at this bomb of knowledge, delivered with such confidence. And I silently thanked his teachers for enriching his life!

But who cares where they raced horses in Rome?

This bit of information may seem pretty trivial*. And that’s because on the surface it is. And we could be forgiven for thinking that remembering seemingly random facts isn’t important. But knowledge isn’t just a list of facts to memorise. Knowledge acts like Velcro: The more you have, the more new ideas can latch onto something.

My son didn’t just remember a random fact about Roman entertainment. He had a small (but surprisingly sturdy) map of a part of the ancient world. And that map let him make an instant connection and correct an assumption. It let him think critically about what someone was saying! And thinking critically is something we all need a little bit more of these days.

It turns out learning about Ancient Rome is helping him learn about other things too!

The names of the planets in our solar system attach themselves to the Roman gods & goddesses.** Roman numerals still pop up. And so many words have roots in Latin.

Now my son’s knowledge is starting to pay unexpected dividends in his new interest in Star Wars.

The parallels are plentiful. Podracing feels a lot like chariot racing.  The Senate held power in the Ancient Roman Republic, as they do in the Old Republic. And Palpatine’s fabricated crises leading to the Galactic Empire mirrors those of Augustus founding the Roman Empire.

What’s happening is simple but profound: his background knowledge is giving him hooks to hang new ideas on.

Star Wars isn’t just flashing lightsabres and cool ships anymore.
It’s a world he can interpret and understand because he has something to compare it to.

This is the magic of a knowledge‑rich curriculum: it makes the unfamiliar feel familiar.
It turns a galaxy far, far away into something recognisable.
And it’s a reminder that cultural literacy isn’t about trivia; it’s about comprehension.
It’s about giving children the schemas they need so that new stories, new concepts, and new worlds don’t wash over them: they stick.

But this is much more than one child’s knowledge.

There is a much bigger message for us as teachers.

When we build a curriculum around shared, sequenced knowledge, we’re not just filling individual minds. We’re creating a collective understanding that everyone can draw on.

When a whole class has a shared collective understanding then:

• discussions become richer
• misconceptions surface faster
• explanations land more cleanly
• and students can build on each other’s ideas rather than talking past one another

It’s the difference between trying to build a Lego model with random leftover bricks and opening a box where every piece has been deliberately chosen.

Shared knowledge doesn’t limit creativity; it enables it.
It’s what allows a seven-year‑old to connect Ancient Rome to Star Wars.
It’s what allows a class to connect a history unit to a novel study to a science lesson.
It’s what allows learning to become cumulative rather than chaotic.
And knowledge empowers children to say, confidently and correctly, “Actually… that’s not true.”

Because knowledge really is Velcro.
And the more hooks we give our students, the more the world (and fictional ones) sticks.
 

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*The word trivial comes to us from the Latin trivium meaning ‘a place where three roads meet’. Enjoy this extra bit of trivial knowledge!

**Except for Uranus which is named after the Greek god of the sky, but using the Roman ‘Caelus’ was considered a bit too similar to the Latin word for sky (caelum)